Lawyers in Hell (51 page)

“Greetings, my good fellow!” LaVey said to the man.  “Welcome to my shop of wondrous eccentricities.  What may I help you find this fine day in hell?”

“Well, I’m looking for clothes, something unusual and unique,” the man replied meekly.

“Something to set you apart from the other denizens of hell, eh?  I think I have something that will work for you in the ready-to-wear….”

“I am looking for something with, um, certain
redemptive
qualities.  I’ve heard rumors that you sell such garments?” the man asked nervously, looking around to make sure no one overheard.

“Of course, I know just what you need, sir.  Just one moment, while I fetch them from the back!”  LaVey ducked into the back room and returned with a pair of creamy linen pants, neatly pressed and hung on a wooden hanger.  On the seat of the trousers there was a light sepia-colored stain resembling a face.

“These look like they should fit you – with a few alterations, of course.  Why don’t you try them on in the fitting room?”  LaVey motioned to an open door at the back of the shop.

The man walked in with the trousers, pulled the curtain, tried on the pants and emerged to inspect himself in the shop’s single full-length mirror.  “The pants … is it true what they say about them?” the patron asked wistfully.

“Some say the rumors are true,” LaVey replied.  “Some say a man worthy of redemption may walk out of hell if wearing the Trousers of Turin.”

“I’ll take them,” the man whispered.  “How much?”

“For you, good sir, a mere five hundred diablos, a bargain for such a rare garment and a chance at salvation –”

“I
said
I’ll take them,” said the customer.  “I just need to get more diablos from home.  If you’ll hold them for me, I’ll return shortly with the full amount.”

“Very well, just let me measure your inseam and I’ll have them ready when you return,” LaVey said, pulling out a yellow dressmaker’s tape.

LaVey took the customer’s measurements and the man left the shop in his ordinary pants, returning promptly with a leather sack of gold diablo coins in hand.  As LaVey counted the coins on the countertop, the customer changed into his new trousers in the fitting room.

“Ah, Mister LaVey, one trouser leg is longer than the other,” the patron objected.

LaVey leveled a steely glance at him.  “Of course it is.  This is hell, you’ll recall.  You don’t actually
expect
them to be perfect, do you?”

“I … guess not,” replied his customer.

“May I interest you in something else, as well?  Holy water from Saint Olaf’s well, perhaps?  Great for removing stains from garments….  Well, except
that
stain of course,” LaVey said mirthfully.  “Some matching accessories, cut from the same cloth as your pants?  We have the socks of Turin, ‘redemption with every step,’ or the fashionable ascot of Turin?  Or perhaps you would like the beret of Turin to ‘cover your head in the warmth of salvation,’ eh?”

“No, no I’m fine with just the pants, thank you,” replied the customer.  He left the shop smiling, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“Have a hellish day!” LaVey called to him as he went out the door.

“Another satisfied customer, eh Madame?” LaVey said.

“Ha!  Another of hell’s fools!”  Madame Blavatsky said it like a curse.

“‘A fool and his money are soon parted,’ Helena.  Who am I to deny them the hope of redemption?”  LaVey chuckled, rubbing gold coins between his fingers.  He thought about all those wretched irredeemable souls, seeking salvation and a way out of hell.  They didn’t know how good they had it here:  an eternity of wickedness and all of hell as a playground!

*

Guy Fawkes wandered the stinking streets of New Hell’s waterfront district, muddy and yet strewn with detritus from the flood, looking for a bar.  He wasn’t hoping to get drunk.  Fawkes couldn’t actually
get
drunk in hell:  he shared that punishment with a majority of the damned.  He was on his way to meet someone who, he’d heard, could help him achieve his own justice in hell – justice unavailable in court.

Streets teemed with hell’s wretched souls.  New dead with their gadgets and old dead from antiquity.  Demons roamed the avenues and alleyways, tormenting hapless damned at random with branding irons, flaming pitchforks, and razor-wire whips.  Fawkes was an accustomed skulker.  Skillfully avoiding the demons, he gained the entrance to the Oasis Bar, guarded by a squad of Marines.

“Okay, buddy, you’re allowed one gun and one magazine.  Turn over everything else to us,” a muscular, bald-headed Marine instructed him.

“I’m not carrying any weapons,” replied Fawkes.

“We’ll search you just to make sure,” said another Marine, this one a crew-cut blond, as tall and ripped as his mate.  “Maybe you’ll like it.”

The blond deftly patted him down but found no hidden weapons on Fawkes’ person.

“You look familiar,” commented the bald Marine.  “You ever serve in Beirut?”

“Sorry, I don’t know the place.  I fought in Spain once, a long time ago.  Well before your day,” replied Fawkes.

“Spain, huh?  Go on in, just don’t start anything you can’t finish, Spaniard!”

Fawkes walked into the chaos of the Oasis Bar.  Several fist-fights were ongoing, and the place stank.  Stale beer and sweat.  Dim light flickered from incandescent bulbs.  The air tasted dangerous.

Threading his way toward a small table in back, he was jostled and bumped by patrons.  His hard-soled leather boots crunched on broken glass covering the filthy floor as he stepped around falling bodies and pools of vomit.  The man sitting at the table was nondescript, the sort who could blend into a crowd unnoticed and leave unremembered.  He was gangly, bony-faced and dark-haired; a thin moustache traced his upper lip as described by phone; and he was sitting at the specified table, quaffing a pint of brown hell ale.

“Guy Fawkes.  Thanks for meeting me,” the man said, words barely audible above the din.

“Please, call me ‘Guido,’” Fawkes said.

“Very well then, Guido, I am Eric Blair, at your service.  So nice to meet a fellow Englishman, no matter what political or religious differences we’d have had in life.  Let’s get down to business.  The Committee understands you’re dissatisfied with the current Administration and your appeal process at the Hall of Injustice.  Certain members of the Committee think it in our mutual interest to treat those in power to our kind of injustice.  It is fortuitous that you contacted us just now.  There’s a new revolution rising in hell.  Not the romantic idealism of men like Guevera, but a genuine movement to supplant the current Administration.  Perhaps you’ll help us achieve that goal.”

A waitress, struggling through the crowd with a tray of ales, set a pint glass down in front of Fawkes, sloshing some on the table.  It didn’t even froth.  Fawkes took a drink and grimaced.  “Aaaaggg!” he sputtered.  “Flat and tasteless, like all food and drink in hell.  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.  I long for the taste of good ale, wine, meat and cheese.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a proper cup of British tea, strong and piping hot,” said Eric Blair, who’d written under the pen name of George Orwell.

Fawkes stared intently at the man.  “I know something of fomenting revolution to depose unjust rulers.  I worked my whole life to free England from the tyranny of a foreign king who cared nothing for his subjects.  If we hadn’t been stopped before our labors came to fruition, our country’s history – world history – would have been very different.  I only hope I can succeed in hell where I failed in life.  If you want revolution, what I need from your ‘committee’ is the means to bring down the symbol of power in hell:  the tower of the Hall of Injustice.  I’ll require a bloody lot of barrels of gunpowder.”

“Gunpowder?  Guido, we can do better.  The Committee has at our disposal the technology of all ages here.  We know the whereabouts of a man who holds in his hands, literally, the key to our first true attack on the Administration – a personal nuclear bomb, not much bigger than a hat box.  We need only to kidnap him so you can get him inside the Hall of Injustice.  Then you can detonate the nuclear explosive from a remote location.  We understand that you, fortuitously, know someone with an office inside the tower,” Eric Blair said flatly.

“Yes,” said Fawkes, just as flatly.  “My lawyer has an office on the sixth floor.  He’ll want no part of this though.  He prizes his good standing with the Administration.  But I may be able to hide this man there for a short time, without my lawyer’s knowledge, until the bomb can be detonated.  When do we acquire this man and his bomb?”

“Soon, very soon.  Take this hellphone, Guido.  I shall contact you when we’re ready to move.  Do you know how to use that?”

Fawkes looked askance at the hellphone.

“I’ve had enough experience with these hellphones to operate one, yes.”  
These bloody infernal devices. 
“I’ll be waiting for your call.  And I’ll be ready.”

“Then farewell for now, Guido Fawkes.  I shall be in touch.  Be very cautious.  Trust no one.  If our plot is discovered, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Guy Fawkes left the Oasis Bar, his way weaving through the brawlers as the Marine bouncers, having finally had enough, started breaking up the skirmishes.

*

Anton LaVey was minding the store:  Hellish Curiosities Clothiers bustled with customers; Helena was grouchy, proclaiming
visions
, annoying customers.  Yet sales were so brisk that not even Madame Blavatsky’s delusional prophecies dampened his spirits.

Then into the busy store clanked some damned soul in full medieval chainmail and plate armor, with a long straight sword sheathed at his belt.  Customers came in here dressed in fashions from all ages.  Still, LaVey thought all that armor an odd choice for the hot streets of New Hell.

“And what may I help you find, Sir Knight?” LaVey asked with a salesman’s smile.

“I am just browsing, thank you, good sir,” said the armored man.  “I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it.”  His accent was antiquated British.

“Perhaps you’d be interested in some of our antique swords?  Or some hand-woven tapestries to decorate your house or castle, eh?” LaVey offered.

“No, I’m well supplied at present, thank you, sir,” the knight replied, looking over LaVey’s wares.  His hard-soled boots echoed on the worn floor; the joints of his armor creaked as he walked.

“Come see these wonderful chalices, then.  No self-respecting knight should be without a silver, jewel-encrusted chalice or goblet.  And on sale for thirty percent off – today only, mind you – the Holy Grail!”

“No, thank you.  I’ve already got one,” the knight remarked with a smile.  In the cabinet beside the chalices was something that caught the armored fellow’s attention.  “May I see that spearhead, the one with the nail inset near the tip and gold leaf wrapping the middle?”

“An excellent choice, sir.  Some say it’s the Spear of Longinus, the very lance that pierced the side of that idealist from Nazareth, whose name shall not be uttered here.”  Trying not to smirk, LaVey unlocked the cabinet and held out the spear.  “Some maintain its provenance proves it to be the Spear of Destiny, named
Gungnir,
weapon of the Norse god Odin, and that the church disguised its true identity, attributing it to their own messianic mythology.  It’s said that he who holds the Spear of Destiny is invincible.  Want to hold it?”

The knight took off his gauntlets, snatched the spear from LaVey, and cradled it to his chest as if clasping his newborn son.

“I will most certainly buy this, sir.” the knight said in a whisper, staring in awe at the spear he held.

“Very well!” said LaVey.  “This is a very special limited-edition item.  I won’t take less than ten thousand diablos.”

“Do you take Hellcard?” asked the knight as he pulled out a plastic credit card decorated with holographic flames and handed it to LaVey.

“Of course, sir.”  Behind his counter, LaVey first swiped the card, then had the knight thumb a touch-pad that pricked the thumb and checked the drawn blood to verify the cardholder’s identity.  The transaction approved, LaVey printed a receipt and handed it and the card back to his customer.

“Here you are Mister … Parsival.  It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Thank you.  I shall tell my companions of the wondrous items your shop purveys,” said Parsival as he clanked out of the store.

LaVey walked over to Madame Blavatsky and asked, “Helena, anything about that last customer seem odd to you?”

“Besides wearing a full suit of armor and paying a ridiculous amount for that rusty old paperweight?” said Madame Blavatsky.

“No. 
Other
than being an armor-plated sucker,” replied LaVey.

“I couldn’t really read him; it was strange, like he was shielded somehow,” said the Madame.

“Oh well, it’s probably nothing,” said LaVey.  “At any rate, it’s been quite a profitable day my dear.”

It was getting quite late and LaVey and Helena began preparing to close up.

“Hellish Curiosities and Clothiers will be closing in ten minutes!” LaVey announced to his remaining customers, who quickly made final selections and left.  As LaVey was about to lock the door, a demon, red-skinned and horned, with a long barbed tail, waltzed in and handed LaVey an envelope.

“Anton LaVey, you are herewith served by the Hall of Injustice.  Have a hell of a day.”

“What the devil is
this?
  A court summons?” LaVey read aloud:  “‘The client of Meletus, attorney at law, hereby summons Anton Szander LaVey to appear at the Hall of Injustice for trial regarding the sale of goods under false pretenses, hereinafter designated as the “Trousers of Turin”.’  Some damned bastard is suing me because I sold him a pair of pants that didn’t save his soul?  Outrageous!”

The summons burst into flames in his hand, and LaVey dropped it, sucking his scorched fingers.

“I did warn you about this, but you never listen to me, you charlatan,” scolded Madame Blavatsky.

“Oh, hush up, Helena, you porcine-faced hag!  I have to go to the Hall and hire myself a lawyer.  Finish closing up for me.”